On the first day of October, in the year of our Lord 1292, we traveled overland to the City of Lions, on the northeast coast of the Indian Sea. There my father and uncle, and the rest of our caravan, went one way and I another. The girl and I embarked on a small ship for the south, and never having traveled any distance by boat before, I spent the first days of the voyage green with sickness. To my great shame, the ten-year-old girl attended to me, soaking my brow in cold water and feeding me a broth made of the chamomile flower. I shall never forget the way she looked at me. The jade eye seemed as filled with sadness as the other.
The entirety of our crew on this small ship was myself, the girl, the pilot, and a man who carried with him a map he showed to no one except the pilot. This man was fearsome both in build and in countenance, covered neck-to-feet in a black, red-trimmed robe, with long black whiskers like a catfish.
On our thirty-eighth day at sea, without ever having sighted another boat nor land, we came in view of a vaporous mountain on the horizon, as if an island itself had been carved out of mist, a fortress of clouds. Hazy white cliffs towered above us, and we steered our ship into a cove of fog.
I watched the menacing man in black step out of the craft, and as he did so the white vapor solidified under his foot, and his map turned to ash in his hands, never to be used again.
We spent two days on this lush island, so abundant with fruit, water, and wildlife that I held out some hope the girl would be able to survive on her own. Nevertheless, I promised myself I would return for her as soon as I could, and I made myself a map, etched into the back of my paiza, which still hung around my neck.
On the day we were to depart, the fearsome man informed me he would be staying behind with the girl, and I assumed it was to kill her. This was the Khan’s way of washing the blood from his own hands. Strangely I never had to tell the girl she was not coming with us. It was as if she sensed her fate.
The voyage to the Arabian Sea was a treacherous one, and the Khan’s story of being lost in a storm nearly came true. I met up with my father and uncle outside the Gulf of Arabia; the sultan believed our account and accepted it with good grace. I was even invited to the great library at Baghdad, the House of Wisdom, to recount my travels to the masters there.
But leaving Persia we were set upon by robbers, arriving in Italy with only the gems we had sewn into the linings of our coats, including my paiza. In Venice, a jeweler friend helped me disguise my map in the form of a magic mirror, a trick I had learned on my travels. But I realized, even before war broke out, that I would likely never have fortune enough to return for the girl.
“Mouse, are you seeing this?” said Bren.
But Mouse was no longer at his side. Bren had become so accustomed to the creaks and groans of the ship’s timbers that he hadn’t heard the cabin door open or the heavy footsteps approaching.
“That’s one of the things I like about you, Bren,” said the admiral. “Your appreciation for good books.”
Bren jerked his head around to see the admiral hovering over him, a lantern in his hand, his blue eyes gone black in the shadows.
CHAPTER
24
THE EMPERORS OF HEAVEN AND HELL
“Stand up,” said the admiral. Bren obeyed. “You too, Mouse, wherever you are.”
Mouse came out from behind a dressing mirror, and looking in her direction, Bren caught a glimpse of his reflection for the first time in as long as he could remember. He was shocked by his ragged appearance. Was this really the same twelve-year-old boy who had left Map? Then it occurred to him that, given how long they’d been at sea, his birthday may have come and gone.
“It was my idea to break in,” said Bren. “Mouse had nothing to do with it.”
“Come with me,” said the admiral.
Bren and Mouse followed him up the ladder connecting his cabin to the chart room, and once they were all inside, the admiral kicked the hatch closed. The sound was like a pistol shot, and Bren flinched.
“What are you going to do to me?” said Bren.
“What you deserve,” said the admiral, and he grabbed a leather sack from his desk and threw it at Bren, who barely caught it. “Open it.”
Bren fumbled to untie the leather string binding the pouch, but when he finally got it open he was surprised to find a backstaff, a compass, and a few other navigational tools. He looked back up at the admiral. “Mr. Tybert’s?”
“The ship requires a navigator. Even the Devil needs his minions.”
“Me?”
“You were his apprentice,” said the admiral. When Bren didn’t react right away, he said, “You do still want to help me find the vanished island, don’t you? To find your fortune?”
“I thought we were after buried treasure,” said Bren, feeling more foolish now than he could ever remember.
“We are,” said the admiral. “It’s just that what Marco Polo buried on that island wasn’t gold and silver.”
“The girl?” said Bren, hardly believing his ears. He had seen bones in the Church of the Faithful in Map. Relics, they were called . . . physical remains of martyrs and saints. But they were sacred symbols, nothing more. And they gave him the creeps.
“The Shang—the ancient people you just read about,” said the admiral, “believed that even before the Ancients, the universe was created and ruled by demigods known as the Three Sovereigns and the Five Emperors. They had great power and were purely virtuous. But with the burdens of ruling Heaven and Hell, they decided to let mortals rule the Middle Kingdom, or the Realm of the Living.
“They made it possible for these mortals—the Ancients—to use magic. But it wasn’t a sort of magic like we Europeans imagine, enchanted swords and wizards with wands. It was a magic more bound with the natural world: taming beasts, controlling rain and rivers for farming, music and art, divination, alchemy, healing, summoning, and soul-traveling. I have been exploring these lost arts ever since my first trip to the Far East.”
Bren’s mind was immediately in the hold again, watching with horror as Otto attacked, and was killed by, something that Bren could only describe as supernatural. “Otto,” he said. “What happened with Otto . . .”
“Yes,” said the admiral. “You witnessed some of my dark arts, as others ignorantly call them. What you saw—what Otto saw—was just an illusion. You’re a mapmaker’s son, Bren. You know well how men populate the unknown with all the bogeymen of their imaginations. He saw a threat where there was just a scarecrow disguising a meat hook, and impaled himself.”
Bren didn’t know what to say. He thought he had seen the same thing as Otto. And these other things the admiral had mentioned . . . alchemy, summoning, soul-traveling? He looked at Mouse, and for one dizzying moment he wondered if the admiral called her Mouse because she was really a mouse.
“So you believe this prophecy?” said Bren. “That this girl was a sorceress? You think she might still be . . . alive?”
“Unfortunately the Ancients began to betray their gifts,” the admiral continued, ignoring Bren’s question. “That sort of spiritual magic is difficult to practice, and even more difficult to teach. How much easier to create magical artifacts. A mirror that lets you see the future instead of having to practice the art of divination. A golden silkworm that spins life, or death. A jeweled scepter of immense power.”
“A magic paiza?” said Bren. “Or a jade eye?”
The admiral smiled. “I’m sure you can see where this leads. Powerful magic that can easily fall into the wrong hands.”
“Are yours the wrong hands?” said Bren.
“I guess that depends on who you ask,” said the admiral. “These things exist, or at least I believe them to. As do many others. Would you rather they end up in the hands of the Church, which has tortured and killed millions in the name of faith? Or with Queen Adeline, who is trying to enlarge her empire the same way the Iberians have, or my own people, the Netherlanders? What do you think goes on in our so-called colonies? These people aren’t
our trading partners, they’re our conquests. I can assure you there’s already talk back in Amsterdam about the next great exported good—human slaves.”
Bren didn’t know what to say. Five minutes earlier he hadn’t thought he could ever feel like a bigger fool, but now he did. “So what is it exactly that you expect to find on the island? If we even get there?”
“The chance for power of our own,” said the admiral. “I know you’ve seen injustice firsthand, Bren. Aren’t you tired of men like Rand McNally building thrones on the backs of men like your father? Or what about our courageous Mr. Richter? You must know men like this in Map. Those who pretend that inherited wealth and accidents of birth entitle them to power?”
Bren immediately pictured the bewigged Cloudesley Swyers, his ridiculous wife, and his horrible son.
“I’m the one who has braved these treacherous seas year after year, for the profit of the Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company and the glory of the king,” said the admiral. “Mr. Richter could buy and sell me, and what’s worse, believes it is his right to do so. I think it’s time for men of real initiative and courage to rule the world, don’t you?”
Admiral Bowman stood next to Bren and put his hand on his shoulder. “Even losing one’s mother at such a young age is a form of injustice, isn’t it?”
Bren looked him squarely in the eye, but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say without sounding childish. Was the admiral suggesting that with the power he sought, he could bring Bren’s mother back?
“We’ve come so far,” said the admiral, returning to his desk. “I refuse to believe we can’t decode the map. We’ve overlooked something, I know it. You already saw something I missed with the constellations. Work your magic again, Bren, and I promise, you can have anything you want.”
CHAPTER
25
THROW MOUNTAINS AND ONLY ONE
The next day Bren took readings on his own for the first time, and it was as if he had learned nothing from Mr. Tybert. He knocked the hourglass over, and forgot which end was up. When he cast the log line into the water, he nearly threw the whole spool overboard. He poked himself in the eye with the backstaff. He looked forlornly at the now empty birdcage, wishing for help from anyone, or anything. He hadn’t felt this scared and helpless since his first days on the ship.
“It’s okay,” said Mouse. “We’re not really lost.”
He knew what she meant. They had already committed to sailing east, and as long as they didn’t sail below the latitude of Cape Colony, Africa would be in front of them eventually. The danger of not knowing how far east or west they were was that they were in uncharted waters, as far as they knew. They could sail headlong into an unknown island cliff hidden by darkness or fog. And Otto had reduced their rations to scraps. They fashioned a drag net to try and catch fish, but came up with little. If they didn’t reach the cape within a fortnight, they might all be dead.
“You were brave,” said Mouse. “Fighting Otto.”
“Not really,” said Bren. “Stupid.” He pulled the paiza from inside his shirt and looked at it. “I guess I thought he couldn’t hurt me.”
Mouse reached up and touched the paiza, cupping it in her small hand. And then her hand went to the black stone next to it.
“Mouse, do you believe . . . do you believe the things the admiral believes?”
“You mean, do I believe the story of where I came from?”
“Or the story about the girl?” said Bren. “The sorceress?”
“Would you have believed some of the things that have happened if you hadn’t seen them yourself?” said Mouse.
Bren shook his head. “No.” He thought back to his conversation with the admiral in McNally’s Explorers’ Club, about the Order of the Black Tulip, their commitment to belief in the extraordinary. Faith in the supernatural, some would say. Yet Bren couldn’t bring himself to believe in things that had happened right in front of him.
Work your magic again, Bren, and I promise, you can have anything you want.
So what did he really want? He thought he knew, once, but now he wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty scared him.
To make matters worse, Bren sat down to a sparse evening meal in the officers’ saloon that night and felt a hard nugget of bone on his tongue. He almost retched, and when he reached into his mouth, he pulled out a tooth—a human tooth.
Mr. Leiden looked at it. “It’s a molar,” he said. “Let me see.”
Bren opened his mouth and a trickle of blood appeared on his lips. Mr. Leiden frowned.
“It’s yours all right.”
“Boys your age lose teeth for lots of reasons,” said the admiral.
Bren looked at Mr. Leiden, who made him open wide again.
“He’s right,” said the surgeon, probing Bren’s gums. “I don’t see any undue bleeding, and we’ve had oranges until recently. Probably not scurvy.”
“Probably,” said Bren.
Mouse took the tooth from him, turning it over and over in her small hands. “Can I have it?”
“By the time we reach Cape Colony you may be able to make a necklace from my teeth,” said Bren, and though Mouse didn’t say anything, Bren could tell she thought that would be amazing.
After dinner Bren gathered up Mr. Tybert’s old logbooks and charts and began the process of trying to figure out just how far off course they might be. After what had happened with Otto, there was a real sense of desperation about food and water, and suddenly the admiral’s flip comment about how they would “reach the cape or die trying” seemed all too likely. They had to consider alternatives.
Bren also searched the admiral’s personal archive of maps, along with one potentially more valuable—McNally’s historical maps, which Bren could recall in his mind’s eye if he had ever seen them once. Was there possibly another island where they might make land and gather resources? Had anyone ever claimed that there was, even if it was disputed now?
But as the days passed, it became clear that any choice they might make other than sailing for Cape Colony would just be a stab in the dark. As dismal as it was, their present course was the best one.
Mouse had taken over Cook’s duties, and also spent much time in the crow’s nest. It was from there, nearly two weeks after the burials, that she began shouting excitedly from the top of the mast.
“Land?” said the admiral.
“No,” she said, scampering down to the deck. “But the birds are flying directly overhead now. We’re close.”
It was what they all longed to hear. And not a moment too soon. They navigated to the latitude of Cape Colony and sailed due east for two more days, until finally the Albatross limped into sight of their destination. Bren went to the rail, hardly able to believe they were within a few hundred yards of land. He prided himself on never crying—not even when his mother died—but he couldn’t help himself. He wept. And he wasn’t the only one.
They prepared the ship to dock within rowing distance of the shallow harbor, and then waited for someone from the colony to come meet them. Governor van Loon himself was among the welcoming party, and he greeted the admiral like a long-lost son.
“Bowman, you rascal! We were expecting you weeks ago! Worried sick! What happened?”
The beaming governor looked around the ship’s waist, at the filthy men with drawn faces and sunken eyes, and his smile retreated. The governor himself was a tall, well-fed man whose ruddy complexion was likely from drink, Bren guessed, not from hard work in the sun, and he suddenly seemed embarrassed by his prosperity.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Let’s get you men fed and watered.”
They spent the next two hours loading fresh supplies onto the Albatross: meat, fruit, vegetables, water, wine, and spirits. Before going back to shore, the governor spoke to Mr. van Decken and Mr. Richter and the admiral, and that’s when Bren overheard something that gave him new hope.
“One happy circumstance of your delay, Bowman—the DB and T Dolphin ported here just yesterday, on
their way back to Amsterdam. Captain Kroeger. I think a feast is in order, celebrating two of our great ships crossing paths, don’t you? Tomorrow night?”
“We shall look forward to it,” said the admiral.
With the supplies unpacked, every man who was left ate and drank until his stomach ached, and Bren had never tasted anything so good. He could only imagine how much better a banquet at the governor’s residence might be. When he mentioned this to Sean, though, the bosun just laughed.
“I hate to disappoint you, little brother, but we stay with the ship.”
“We don’t get shore leave?” said Bren. “Even for just a few hours?”
Sean’s expression told Bren that his crushing disappointment must have been written all over his face.
“It’s customary, on a trip like this,” Sean explained. “Desertion is always a risk, especially when things haven’t gone smoothly. Now get some rest. There’s more work to be done in port than you think.”
Sean was right. Despite their sorry state, all hands were on deck the very next morning, cleaning the deck, scraping and repainting the hull, slushing the masts, tarring the ropes, and mending sails. A knot of envy twisted in Bren’s gut as he watched two small boats row out to the ship, one collecting the admiral, Mr. Richter, and Mr. van Decken, and the other loading two enormous padlocked trunks that had been hauled up from the hold.
It’s not fair, thought Bren, who had to remind himself that if his life to date had taught him anything, it was that fair had nothing to do with it. But he noticed that he wasn’t the only one grumbling. With both Bowman and van Decken off-ship, the hobs weren’t shy about expressing their doubts. Many wanted to convince the admiral either to return to Amsterdam, or to take their normal, familiar course to the Dragon Islands.
“I wouldn’t bring it up,” said Sean. “It rots of mutiny.”
The Vanishing Island Page 18